


Welcome to the Life of the Prince of Heart

by evaderstrider



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Abuse, Bottling EVERYTHING, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Feels, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Minor CottonCandy, Minor RoseKanaya, Minor RoxyJane, Physical Abuse, Protective Older Brothers, Protectiveness, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Verbal Abuse, emotional breakdown, minor Rosemary - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evaderstrider/pseuds/evaderstrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk  strider and Dave Strider live in a constant state of fear. It has been seven years since their Mother left their Father...</p><p>It has been six years since they could trust and recognize their Father...<br/>It has been five years since Dirk became their Father's punching-bag...<br/>It has been five and a half years since Dave started cowering in his room because he could hear Dirk crying out in pain with each blow their father dealt.<br/>It has been forever since they were an unbroken family.</p><p>In this, Dirk is sixteen, Dave is thirteen, their respective friend group are the same ages, just about, their Father is in his late thirties. Dirk basically pulls the "Hero Card" and takes a large percentage of the pummelings their Father finds nessecary to spare his little brother from the carnage... though he doesn't realize Daveis already suffering from not being able to help his brother. </p><p>The Strider boys are good at hiding a lot of things, they still come off cool and hella fucking amazing to everyone around them, but they both know their home situation will break them. They still refuse to confide in anyone to spare their friends and eachother from suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This isn't a Family, it's Dictatorship.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I am NOT going to romanticize self-harm, abuse, mental issues and I will try my hardest to not write offensively or in a Mary-Sue type context. Please, if there are major spelling errors, correct me in the comments, I apologize for the most likely very spaced out updates, I am not able to access a computer regularly.
> 
> Enjoy.

»You are DIRK STRIDER and you need to stay strong right now.  
This is your life: your Father has "intense anger issues" (your Mother left him, you assume that contributes to it...), you are in charge of your thirteen-year old little brother, cleaning the house, attending school... In addition to normal teenager-type duties, hiding bruises and making up excuses for having blood stains on your shirts has become almost routine ever since your Father discovered you were terrified of him. Though your father is a cruel, violent man, you stay, only to keep your younger brother out of the firing line... You aren't sure if you can keep it up much longer, though.

»You are Dirk Strider, and you're not sure if you're breathing.  
Your father has gone off at you for getting a C- in English class, then "back talking" when you tried to explain what had happened. Then he hit you, your pointed shades went flying across the room as you tensed with the blow, instead of going with it to the floor. You had a "knack for annoying the piss out of-" him, although he was your biological Father, the man you and Dave had grown up with, he no longer acted as a caring parental figure...  
It stung already, where he had struck, you knew you were going to have to ask Roxy to cover up marks quickly before class with her makeup.

Before you'd even recovered from the first blow, an angered remark spewed from his mouth and a fist connected with your sternum, forcing the air from your lungs and making you stumble then fall to the floor. This was it, you knew there was more coming, all you could do was brace for the blows on the ground.  
What felt like ages passed, your ribs ached, your eyes burned from tears, you were fairly certain your lip was split down the middle because you could taste blood. As your Father gripped your shirt and yanked you up from the floor to glare in your face, he growled out a "Do your fucking homework, if you would just listen to me, this wouldn't happen." 

Then he threw you down, literally threw you down, and stalked towards you with a heavy scowl that screamed at you to get out of the way and to run... but you couldn't, you were frozen in fear and your watery eyes rendered you blind as he raised his work-boot-clad foot and stomped it down on your hand, then twisted it, no doubt scraping skin from your knuckles. You let out a sharp cry and an elongated whimper, if you screamed out he would just enhance the punishment...

After what felt like ages he finally grew tired of beating you, he had kicked your sternum so hard you feared he had punctured a lung, he had backed you up to a wall, yanked you up by your hair as you desperately tried to not dangle then had proceeded to wrap his free hand around your throat, squeezing until you were gasping and grabbing at his shoulders to release you. Choked cries and pleas bubbled past your lips, when he dropped you he turned after saying a barely-heard snide remark, no doubt something degrading... you couldn't hear it over the pulsating of much needed blood and oxygen to your head and lungs...

Sometimes you thought you caught a glimmer of sorrow or remorse in his eyes before he subsequently pounded you into thinking otherwise. This wasn't the first time he had elected to whoop your rump... he had started barely two years after your Mother had walked out on your little trio of broken hearts and such. You wish you could walk away as easily as she had... but you had to stay, to make sure Dave was alright, ensure that he wasn't being subjected to the same punishments. 

Your Father wasn't horrible from the start, when your Mother was around, he was amazing, he was so sweet to you and Dave, he would take you out for ice cream weekly, help you with homework... Once time Dave had taken a fall off of his skateboard and skinned his knee pretty badly, instead of what your present-Father would have done (which was roll his eyes, fix him up begrudgingly then verbally abuse him and then crack him once or twice on the noggin.), your past-Father had picked him up, smiled warmly at him and hummed as he went to fixing your younger brother up, it made you smile.

You don't exactly understand what had happened to your Father's good side. You do, however, remember one night, a week or so before your mother left, you were nine, Dave was six, you and him had stayed up late playing Minecraft on the Xbox, he was asleep against your shoulder and you were hyper-awake. On that night you heard your Mother shriek from upstairs, your Father yell, there was a loud thud and then sobbing... Your Mother came down the stair crying her eyes out, shoulder-length blonde hair a dishevelled mess and blood trickling from her nose and lower lip. You had stared at her, gawked, you had not understood what was going on at the time, but now? You understood.

That night your Mother had left for the first time, taking you and Dave with her. You stayed at one of her friend's houses, it was small and smelled like lavender and you hadn't really paid much attention to the decor, but upon entering the house your Mother had lead you and Dave to a small bedroom, setting you up under the covers with Dave beside you. Then she kissed your heads and left the room, you heard sobbing from downstairs and incoherent babbling before falling asleep. A week later she left, she had tried to take you and Dave along but your Father wasn't giving up, he won the court case. You were saddened to lose your mother... but at the time your Father wasn't so bad.

Check in two years later, he got angry at you for you don't even remember what, that was your first split lip of many. That was the first time Dave had seen you cry...

»You are Dirk Strider... and you didn't finish your homework that night, you were too exhausted, too in pain, you had slunk to your room and whimpered into your pillow as you stifled pained sobs and moderately loud cries of frustrated dismay. Before, you used to plea "Why me-" but now you...- honestly, you were beginning to believe him when he said that basically everything wrong in the world was your fault. He blames you for just about everything from your little brother screwing something up, to him stubbing his toe. Again, sometimes he resembled your past-Father, but it was only for a few moments at a time, and you are fairly certain you imagine it...

»You are Dirk Strider and it is Monday morning, you do your usual routine, make breakfast for Dave and your Father, eat a small fraction of it in silence, glance at Dave every now and again to see him staring at you out of the corner of his eye, most definitely looking at your not-yet concealed bruises. Your Father smiles, heads off for work, says he loves you two, then you're off to conceal as many incriminating marks as possible before heading off to school to have Roxy finish the job.

When you arrive at school, you and Dave part ways, you head off to find Roxy talking with Jane and Jake about god knows what, when she sees you, her face falls and she has to stop herself from gasping as she sees your wounds, manly the cut on your lip and the light bruising on your eye that you couldn't quite hide so well. 

"Hey, guys." you say, your usual stoicness and calm, cool, collected tone still ever present despite the immaculate amounts of pain you were in. You look to Roxy, "Can you cover up this last bit...? I didn't have time this morning..."

Roxy frowns but retrieves her makeup bag, dragging you to a less crowded corridor as Jane and Jake exchange worried glances and you can feel their eyes shooting pity in your direction... 

»You are Dirk Strider, and you hate yourself as much as your Father proves he does... and then some.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably really short so I'm sorry.

»You are ROXY LALONDE, and this is the bazillionth time your best bro bud has come to you with bruises that need a coverin'...

Okay, scratch that, it's most likely only been the, like, billionth time... even that's an exaggeration, but it's a high number and it worries you. You have been letting it slide with the excuse of "He's an active guy who likes to rough-house with Jake from time to time, he's probably just fought a little outside of school." and a few others. Honestly, you were bullshitting yourself, lying, you knew it was something more, the thought turned your gut, though. That lie died pretty quickly as, over the years, his occasional, suppressed cheer and excitement and humor had... well, evaporated. Disappeared. Gone. Poofed. It didn't exist anymore. He wasn't the same sometimes happy-go-lucky Dirk that you had, admittedly developed a small crush on. It really sucked that the guy didn't dig chicks all too much, but it didn't change your friendship, yeah, it stung for a while, like, real bad. BUT you discovered two things, one: booze was AMAZING. Two; girls are really, really cute, especially Janey-- wait, wait, wait. . . 

You were talking about Dirk. 

You hate when you ramble.

Anywhore, Dirk changed, and it came to your attention more promptly this year. He had always acquired bruises, always had evidence of being in a fight, but always defensive- you now collectively recall all the times you had had to help him cover his bruises. Yeah, all defensive. He never had bloody knuckles that were produced from fighting back, nor did he have a smug smirk as expected from someone like him winning a scuffle, or a story of triumph or defeat. If anything, he avoided the topic of fights and the crowd likely to get INTO fights with a passion. In all intense honesty, he couldn't be pegged for someone to fight. You mean, the guy LOCKED UP and FLINCHED whenever someone moved unexpectedly. 

One time, at lunch, he had all but flung himself onto the floor as you went to lightly smack his cheek in a mock-offended way, it made Jake, Jane, and you stare at him in confusion as he blushed profusely and had to excuse himself, hurrying away to the bathroom. That was one of the first times he'd flinched around you all. 

That was just about four or so years ago, after that, he still would flinch, he would wince if someone touched him somewhere, as if hurt. He had gotten a tad quieter, but constantly assured you and Jake and Jane that all was well and that he was "completely and utterly fine." So, you hadn't really worried, you were all around the age of twelve and thirteen, so, it hadn't occurred to any of you that his smiles were fake.

Another time was when you all had been together, getting ice cream outside of school on a warm summer day when a driver on the road had screeched to a halt as almost colliding with another driver, the two had screamed at eachother. Unlike Jade, Jane, John, Jake, Rose and you, both Dirk and Dave ducked their heads and you could have sworn you'd seen them shaking as the road-rage-engulfed drivers screamed at one another. That was merely last summer. 

Dirk had gotten progressively worse since that time four years ago, he concealed bruising on his neck and face, wore long sleeves to cover lacerations about his wrists as if someone had held too tight. He carefully kept himself covered and you were so sick of it!

You had long since pieced the pieces together and had come to the conclusion that something terribly horrible was going on in the two blondes' home lives. You had to ask, he had come into school with yet another batch of bruises. A busted lip, semi-black eye, a cut above his eyebrow, his cheek was bruised, aswell. It tossed your stomach and you had to swallow down the urge to cuddle him close and kiss his cheeks all platonically.

You pulled him to a bench in an empty hallway and sat next to him as you administered cover up and toning, matching his complexion was difficult, especially where you had to mimic his freckles. But you were Roxy godamn Lalonde and you had this shit. Once his bruises were completely hidden by your expertise makeup job, you were down to the hard, verbal stuff.

"Dirky. You know you can tell me anything, right?" you asked softly, fixing his jacket before putting away your cosmetics. He nodded as looking at you, puzzled.

"Yeah, Rola. I know, why do you ask..?" he was chewing the inside of his cheek, causing it's hollow to deepen ever so slightly as he did.

"You've been showing up to school with increasing amounts of injury, Dirk." You crossed your arms, pulling out your most motherly, 'Momma Rola ain't takin no shit.' tone. His physical response threatened to make you drop it, you held strong as his head drooped and he froze up. You could tell that his eyes were wide and he was trying to think up a logical reason for why he was always so beat up.

"I-I'm just clumsy, Rox, really. It's nothing..." He responded, trying his hardest to keep his tone natural, though you could tell he wanted to cry despite his best efforts. You reached out and poked where you knew a bruise was, he let out a squeak and jumped, staring at you wide-eyed as your magenta gaze narrowed.

"Dirk, I love you, you're my best friend, but if you bullshit at me again I'm gonna hack into your cable subscription and lock the TV everytime My Little Ponies™ comes on." You warn, he was powerless to the urge to smile. You yanked him closer and hugged him gently. "Telllllllll meeeeeee."

He sighed, leaning into your hug, next he spoke. His words were so quiet you had to glance up and make sure that, A.) It was Dirk talking, and B.) That he was talking.   
"Remember when I flinched at lunch? Like, I almost ended up on the ground..." You nodded, prompting him to continue, "And over the summer when I all but whimpered and cried when those two drivers were yelling?" you crinkle your nose and nuzzle him, nodding again.

"...You...know how I'm overall just jumpy and nervous?" he knew he couldn't hide the subtle giveaways from you, he knew your pinky-hued eyes picked up on it when he seemed panicked. "There's a reason for that..." He looked down, suddenly finding his scuffed, orange converse more interesting than the story he was telling. You gently nudge him and he snaps back to reality.

"I know you most likely already pieced this together, but, Dave and I's Father-" he never said Dad. "-has subjected us to some... pretty fucked up shit..." He admitted vaguely, he was good at that. "I can't hit back, and I try to keep Dave as much out of his grasp as I can, I can't let him hit Dave, so I aggravate him more than he previously was sometimes to make sure Dave's okay. He started when Mom left... but I'm pretty sure he started hitting her long before..." He went on to spill his guts about them, how their Dad went from nice to a douche-ass abuser almost over night to them, how their mom left, how she lost the court case, how Dave and him had tried to be optimistic... how Dave and him had almost ended their lives because of it. Everything that could be spilled had been spilled.

His words confirmed your fears and you tugged him into a ton get hug with a soft "Dirky..." as he hesitantly hugged you back. You could feel his heartbeat, it hammered in his chest, his arms shook, his whole body shook. In that moment you felt like a horrible friend for not realizing his situation sooner.


End file.
